


The Journal

by Carolinian_Bog_Hermit



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Drama, Gen, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinian_Bog_Hermit/pseuds/Carolinian_Bog_Hermit
Summary: In which the Malkavian Johnathan Brennan receives a gift from an old friend.
Kudos: 5





	1. Entry #1: The Journal

**Author's Note:**

> This is an unedited transfer of some writings I've done on Tumblr. Johnny, the main character, is an original character who works with the "Moretti Coterie," a coterie from North Carolina that Prince LaCroix has previously received aid from. The entries take place in late 2010s Los Angeles, in an alternate universe where LaCroix has not yet opened the Sarcophagus...yet. It features some of my original characters, such as Johnny, Montey, Cormac, and Michael, as well as LaCroix's Seneshal Nick Edenson, who belongs to my dear friend Jen. You can read some of her work here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantrykomori/

Montez visited today. He’s leaving Los Angeles. Can’t blame him. This city is the territorial equivalent of a hemorrhoid. Why am I staying here again?

Anyways, as I was saying, he shows up at me door about midnight, the usual cool on him sloughed off. He looks nervous, and Montez never looks nervous.

“Listen Johnny,” he says, “the Prince knows. I don’t know what that means for me and Mac, but we need to get out. Michael says he needs you to stay here, act the diplomat.”

“Right,” I say. It’s what I expected. The Prince has been alive longer’n any of us. He may look the eejit, but he’s not one.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. His hand is rough, calloused, scarred in some places…familiar.

“Don’t worry Johnny. The Prince has gone soft. The most he’ll do is let us off with a stern warning, maybe have Edenson chew you out a bit. Something like that. The info I gave you on that slip of paper? You can tell them that much. Read it and burn it. Er, well…tear it up and flush it down the toilet, I reckon. Forgot you don’t care much for fire.”

“Right, don’t worry about it Montez. I’ve got it handled.”

He sits down next to me on the couch, leaning in to look at my face. His eyes are soft, hazel, warm. Most folks would have had their faces, bodies, and souls turned dead cold by this kind of life.

Not him. He’s still all there.

“I know it’s been rough, Johnny.”

“Ah get to fuck, Montey. You know I’ve been worse off than this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But the Baali? That Mira gal? She’s serious shit. You’re allowed to feel like it’s serious shit.”

“Mm.”

“Doing that for some random lick was pretty brave.

“Montey-”

“Alright, alright. Just take care of yourself, Johnny.”

He pulls something out of his coat. I expect it to be an extra gun, not that I need em. But it’s a book, large and bound in leather, wrapped closed with a single cord.

“It’s a journal.”

I look down at the book, then back up at him. “Can’t draw that well.”

“No, no. I mean, you can doodle if you want of course, but it’s for writing.”

I click my teeth, slumping back against the couch. Not this again. “Montez, we’ve been through this. That kind of shite doesn’t do anything for me. What, get it on paper? So what? So I can read back over it and feel sorry for meself? So someone can find it and read me insides, exploit me? What the feck is the point?”

“Didn’t say you had to write about that kind of thing. You could if you wanted to – maybe putting some of the stories on paper will mean less of em bruising the inside of your skull. Then you can tear it up and flush it, like shit on toilet paper, y’know? Or, you can write poetry, write what you see around the room, hell, you could even just write lists. Lists of your favorite lyrics, your favorite bars, maybe keep track of your best pool scores, all the Jeopardy questions you’ve gotten right…”

I chuckle, and it’s a real one. “The ones I’ve gotten right? That’s not a lot of pages, mate.”

He flashes a lopsided grin, the corners of his handsome eyes creasing. “Don’t sell yourself short, Poindexter.”

I take it from him with a small “ta” and unwind the cord from around it. The pages are smooth, unlined, fancy. More at home on some rich boy artist’s bookshelf than my hands. “Ehhm. Well, shite, that’s class, yeah.”

“Right? Paid a good buck for it! So give it a scribble.”

“I – I will, yeah.” I quickly correct myself. “I – I mean that for real, not in the Irish ‘I will, yeah’ sense.”

He lets out a hearty laugh, grinning from sideburn to sideburn. The way he looks at me, I can tell. I can tell he misses me. I can tell he maybe wants to yell about it, try and knock some sense into me. But it’s like this – you don’t let your bairn stick their hand in the fireplace just because they want to. You tell them “Oi, get the feck away from that or you’ll burn.” And I don’t want Montey to burn.

“Well,” he says, standing and sticking a hand in his coat pocket, “I better get going.” He puts his hand on my shoulder again and gives me a last glance. “Stay cool, Johnny.”

“I’ll try. Be safe, Montez. Give Mac a hug for me.”

“Mac, he-” Montez stops himself short. “Yeah, I’ll give ‘im one. See ya, John.”

Well, look. I wrote it down. Can’t say I like it any better on paper than I do in person.

Right. I reckon I should stick to listing my favorite lyrics or some shite.

_“One time ago a crazy dream came to me_   
_I dreamt I was walking to World War Three_   
_I went to the doctor the very next day_   
_To see what kind of words he could say_   
_He said it was a bad dream_   
_“I wouldn’t worry about it none, though_   
_Them old dreams are only in your head"”_   
_Dylan. Talkin’ World War III Blues._

-J. Brennan.


	2. Entry #2: The Red Right Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick Edenson belongs entirely to my friend Jen. You can read her writing here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantrykomori/

I read Moretti’s orders. Memorize 'em. Tear it all up into pieces, spread it out over different bins. If the enemy has Nosferatu going through me trash, I’m fecked and then some.

I check for bugs – wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last either. Give the Lee-Enfield a once-over, load her up, set her down by the settee to watch the telly with me.

Then I wait.

He’s at the gates just short of midnight: Nick Edenson, the red right hand of the Prince of Los Angeles. But he don’t kick down the door like a mule, nah – he knocks. Ask if he can come in and talk. Polite, like. He’s not armed, he says. The cheek of him! Like he needs to be armed. Fought alongside him in that bunker, against the Baali hag…seen what he could do. He could incinerate the entire block with a single breezer if he wanted to. He don’t need any weapons.

He sits and lights a cig. I watch him outta the corner of me eye while the blood-sweat beads up. He’s bonny as hell, with a tongue that would get him in trouble if he won’t so powerful. Squinting at him, there are shapes dancing round his silhouette, casting halos on me eyelashes. It’s like staring directly into the flame of a candle.

He settles fast and right off, he asks about the spy-work. I tell him the truth, even though he don’t seem to believe me at first. And truth is this: someone knows something ugly about the Prince, where he came from, who he really is. They want him outta the game and they don’t care who they screw along the way. That’s the way though, ain’t it? Chess pieces on a board.

Edenson hears what he needs to hear. He tells me that the Prince ain’t like that – and if he were, it don’t matter. It’s who the Prince is now, he says. I tell him I couldn’t give less of a shite about what the Prince has done. Look at me. Where’s the room to judge?

I offer him an olive branch - my services. Attack dog. My skin itches for it. Load me in the chamber. Pull the pin.

But he says nah. He tells me to stay home, relax. He leaves a trail of smoke and flickering shadows behind him.

“Stay home.” “Relax.” I think he means it too. Don’t know how to take that, really. Can’t leave for the East Coast regardless, not yet. Would have ended up here even if Moretti hadn’t pointed me this way.

Something about this place keeps pulling me here. Something just on the edge of me vision, but never in the line of sight. I know damn well what it is, but I ain’t foolish enough to write it down. Still think writing any of this down is a mistake.

Maybe this entry should go in the trash with me orders.

-J. Brennan


End file.
